Between the Pages: A Dramione Story
by saileigh
Summary: It's been seven years, and as Wizarding Britain continues to settle quietly into the mundane, some of our favorite heroes are surprised to find themselves a bit lost in the aftermath. There are nightmares, yes, but the quiet is sometimes more terrifying. What happens when the Brightest Witch of Her Age doesn't live up to her own - and everyone else's - expectations?
1. Chapter 1

_Thursday_

Draco couldn't help it; despite being on the far outskirts of Diagon Alley, he couldn't help peeking around the corners to make sure he was avoiding large crowds or, god forbid, anyone he might know.

It was bad enough that the afternoon was bright and crisp following a fog-logged spring. The sun glinted off his hair, catching his eye whenever he passed a particularly spotless shop window. As he stepped back and rounded one corner - as though he hadn't just bent slightly at the waist to peer around it - hands shoved in his pockets, a toddler gurgled up at him, going by in a self-pushing walker. Chubby hands were raised into the air, grasping at nothing, and Draco was bothered briefly by the stirring in his gut.

Children. Once they had been a certain future, a duty. When had they become a desire that he had to tamp down with the embarrassment?

A young woman he could only assume was the child's mother strolled by a few feet behind, chatting with a friend, and her gaze went from the toddler's sudden fascination to his white-blond hair as he was almost completely past the trio. He heard the pause in the conversation; knew she was most likely doing a double-take, wondering if he was really who she thought he was.

_But why would he be back here?_ he recited in his mind, having heard it whispered in his general vicinity many times. What could possibly bring Draco Malfoy - ex Death Eater and disgraced Pureblood - back to London?

Only two and a half weeks back and he often found himself asking the same thing. It had been a quick decision, as was every decision that followed after. The train ticket back, one way. A new luggage bag. A flat that was rented monthly. And the piece of parchment, worn from being folded and re-folded, in his pocket now, where he fingered the thin corner.

_We have found ourselves with a sudden vacancy due to unfortunate circumstances._

When he woke in the mornings, in the unfamiliar flat and the double bed, his mind flashed through every event that had led to him being here. In London. Had he dreamed it all? Had it all been wishful thinking?

Of course not - he scoffed aloud, drawing the gaze of an old man sweeping just outside of a parchment shop. Draco Malfoy dreamed of many things, but returning to London under these circumstances was never one of them. He found himself fighting back hope the same way he'd snuffed out any thought of a real, normal future. He reached across himself and gripped his left forearm, where now there was only a faded opaque mess. What he was being offered, what he was tentatively returning for, was the only future he could hope for.

"Is that Draco Malfoy?" he heard, and couldn't help turning his head to find the speaker.

The boy was ginger, and young, but obviously too old to be a student. For a moment Draco's heart pounded in his chest and his mouth went dry. A Weasley -

But no. It was just some other redhead, freckled in the heat of the day, although he could have been related for the indignant look on his face. "Can you believe - " he spat, and Draco ducked down the next alley to the right, looping back toward the quieter streets. There would be no quidditch shops today.

This alley was more than the average alley, and a quick glance told Draco that it was partially residential. The windows above the few shops contained plants, curtains, figures moving and voices floating out of open windows. It was blessedly empty except for a few people walking with their heads down, going about their business.

He slipped his hands back in his pockets and slowed to a stroll. A shop on the right sold magical fish. He paused here and watched one circle lazily before winking out of existence; appearing again in the next tank over, to his surprise, and the frustration of the shopkeeper, whose muffled yell sounded agonized. In two seconds the new occupant of the tank swallowed the original; a smaller fish, periwinkle blue and innocent looking with huge eyes. It left behind a smudge of red in the water; the Jumping Fish, as the sign advertised, having sucked it down in one big gulp before appearing back in its own tank.

Draco blinked and continued on.

_Maybe a fish wouldn't be so bad, _he mused, thinking of the empty nightstand back at the apartment. But not the kind that could suddenly appear damp and flailing on his face as he dozed - no thank you.

A small herbalist with basic remedies and low prices was next, as well as a knitting shop with yarn piled precariously in baskets that took over every available space. A small group of older women chattered within. And then down on the left, there, just after a large potted plant that seemed to be stretching lazily in the blocks of sunlight that made it down into the alley - a very bright, slightly ornate door.

Draco slowed completely as he neared it, intrigued by the setting of the bricks around it and the curled iron over a long glass pane. He ducked his head as someone passed by close enough for him to feel a robe play at his ankles, and then glanced up to read the small black and gold plaque just to the side of the door:_ A New Chapter. _

That pesky bit of hope that Draco had beat down earlier suddenly swelled in his chest again. He ignored it as he reached for the handle; it wasn't a sign. Such things didn't exist. But he had four more days until the meeting, and time to spare. He couldn't spend every waking hour wandering the streets of Diagon Alley, chancing being recognized and reminded of every mistake he had ever made. Though it could be no worse than the list he went over in his own head every morning as he brushed his teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sunday_

Hermione was on her knees again, crammed - quite literally - into the very bottom shelf of a very old bookshelf, dust tickling her nose and causing it to wrinkle. Probably permanently.

"Ridiculous," she muttered to herself as she reached for a book that had fallen back behind the row she was re-arranging. She'd have to talk to Andrea, who she paid a bit extra to dust on Saturdays on top of her normal shift. The girl clearly wasn't getting all of the nooks and crannies.

The magical cooking section was being re-arranged, yet again, due to a new collection that had come out last week by one of the most popular At Home witches. Who knew there was such a market for magically prepared, multi-functioning cuisine?

Well, Molly Weasley knew, obviously. Her ginger apple tarts weren't just delicious; they were a surprising cure for nausea. And the Muggles were getting there on their own...if only they would be more open-minded to what they considered hippy remedies.

A small bell above the door jingled and Hermione grunted, trying to flex her arm as it had locked at the elbow. She was holding a copy of _Vegetables in Disguise: for Children Who Can't be Reasoned With_, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the stir of dust as she called out, "I'll be right there!"

If it was one of her regulars she'd offer them a cuppa, as she always kept a kettle on. And if it was a new visitor to the shop she'd give them the quick run-down of where everything was and offer her help in finding something, if they wanted anything in particular.

With Flourish & Blotts only two streets away, she didn't get many students in looking for textbooks, but Hermione did pride herself on offering the rare, interesting, or simply leisurely. It was the kind of bookstore she'd dreamed of as a child and young adult; somewhere you could stumble upon and leave with an armful of odds and ends, stimulating, relaxing, and anything in between.

She placed _Vegetables in Disguise_ atop the already precarious pile that she'd need to re-alphabetize by author and began the short journey to the front of the shop. A left turn at the Magical and Mundane pets section, a quick right at the tall and narrow shelf of poetry that always grabbed customers' attention (poetry, after the Middle Ages, was surprisingly sparse in the Wizarding world), and the front desk was in sight, tea kettle and all.

She'd strewn the place with rugs of all shapes and sizes, and so her visitor didn't hear her approaching, and stood facing the entrance. Hermione had just begun to hum to herself when she choked on the tune abruptly and stumbled to a stop. She'd know that hair anywhere.

Malfoy, oblivious to what was about to ensue, turned around innocently enough. It surprised her even more to see the slight slouch to his shoulders and the way his still infamous white-blond hair fell haphazardly into his pale face.

As if in slow motion, she watched his eyes widen and his shoulders pull back. Took in the perfect press of his grey trousers and the corner of a light purple handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. Then everything sped up again, and he was fumbling his hands out of his pockets, mouth open.

"Malfoy," she said flatly, instantly wishing she could take it back and say something witty or intimidating.

He flinched at the use of his surname and it didn't go unnoticed.

"Granger," he returned deliberately and carefully.

His shoulders were still up tight around his ears, and Hermione consciously relaxed her own posture to try and indirectly alleviate his stress. She couldn't help it; it was part customer service and part compassion.

Sighing, she moved forward again and slipped behind the counter, turning the dial on the hot plate up enough to bring the kettle to a slight boil.

"Can I offer you some tea?" she asked, at once impressed with herself for sounding so casual and mortified to find herself in this situation. What exactly did one say to their childhood bully, who had been on the other side of a literal war, and just barely redeemed himself by the skin of his teeth?

Malfoy nodded stiffly and self-consciously pushed his hair out of his face, combing it back from his forehead. It was a gesture that Hermione quite liked in men, and she glanced up at him as he did it.

Despite the small step up behind the counter he was still a few inches taller than her. It was disorienting for a moment and didn't feel exactly right, until she realized that what was putting her off was the fact that her untamed head of hair in school had made them seem closer in height. The thought made her flush, and she felt the heat rise slowly up her neck.

"I wasn't expecting to find you here," Malfoy stated, the words sounding forced and disjointed. His eyes widened just slightly and Hermione felt relieved that she wasn't the only one feeling awkward and caught off guard.

"Here?" she asked, knowing what he meant, but her mouth was slow to catch up with her mind under the circumstances.

"In London," he clarified. "In Diagon Alley. In a book shop, I suppose, although it isn't too surprising given some thought."

Hermione concentrated on pouring the tea, a combination of bergamot and lavender that calmed her, before responding with carefully chosen words.

"Yes. If I'm being honest, I'm a bit surprised by it myself." Why _was _she being honest with Draco Malfoy? Over the last seven years she had never, not once, given any thought to what might happen if he walked into her shop. If she ran into him on the street, before she had the shop. The last time she had so much as sent a moment of consideration his way was after the trials, when she and Harry had spoken before the Wizengamot, wanting to make sure that Draco and Narcissa's efforts in the last legs of the battle were recognized.

It had earned their classmate probation, somewhere outside of Britain - where she'd never bothered to find out. And his mother had been on house arrest for quite a few years. A lonely sentence, considering that Lucius would be serving twenty-five years in Azkaban.

Hermione glanced up at her visitor once more as she recalled the outcome of the trials those years ago. She, Harry, Ron, and the rest of the Order had been so intent on moving on that they hadn't given much thought to what happened to those classmates and foes who slipped quietly into penitence.

Well, she had been the most focused on moving on. Harry and Ron lost themselves in tidying up what was left of the Dark forces. Harry, until Ginny pulled him out of it all forcefully. Saving the Boy Who Lived once more.

For a while Ron continued on with Dark objects, tracking them down and disarming them with a small team of Ministry workers, until that cufflink had almost taken his hand off at the wrist -

Hermione raised the cup of tea up to her mouth and inhaled the scent, staring blankly ahead. The slight movement of Draco shifting his weight from one foot to the other pulled her back to the present.

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly, meeting his eyes for the first time since he'd walked in. "What about you? What are you doing here?"

He flinched and looked away, eyeing the nearby shelves and the trinkets she had around the walls and counters. She nudged the cup of tea she'd made him his way, and he reached for it slowly, nodding his appreciation.

"I have...an invitation of sorts. To discuss an employment possibility in the area. Though to be honest, being back is becoming more and more unappealing every day."

The blunt tone to his voice told her that he was being honest as well, and she wondered if he was as baffled by that choice as she was. Or maybe he was just resigned, as his shoulders shifted back into a slumped posture that she found discomfiting on him.

"That does seem to be the way of things," she remarked, allowing one corner of her mouth to curl up a bit. His eyes caught the movement and he smiled back just barely. Strange. What a strange day.

"I'm looking for a book," he said after taking a few sips of tea. Hermione watched him pull the cup back toward his face quickly, inhaling, and his eyelids lowered just a bit.

"What book? If I don't have it here, I can order it I'm sure. And I don't charge very much for overhead so you won't have to worry about paying a ridiculous price."

Did he still have the fortune, she wondered? The Malfoy vaults - most likely even more voluptuous than the Black vault that they had snuck into looking for the cursed cup. She frowned, recalling something about the Malfoy's having to pay a substantial fine for reparations. As did all families suspended in the grey haze between guilty and innocent. They had Hogwarts to re-build, hundreds of homes, businesses, streets...

Hermione stopped her mind from wandering with a practiced intention, and looked back to Malfoy, who seemed a bit lost.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I hadn't gotten that far. I'll be in town for a few more weeks, at least, and I need something to fill the time..."

Hermione put her cup down decisively and came back around the counter, starting off into the shelves. If anyone knew about having to fill time, it was her. She spoke half over her shoulder, walking the rows by rote.

"Well I'm not sure what exactly you're interested in, but if you give me a few examples of books that you've found rapturous in the past I'm sure I could direct you to some like options - "

"Rapturous?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice, and she glanced back to see him winding carefully along the rows, his eyes grazing the covers around them.

She listed off genres, first, and watching him carefully for slight reactions, sub-genres after that. A few well-known titles that she knew she had in stock and some more obscure things that seemed to pique his interest more.

Hermione couldn't stop herself from chattering away, as she loved helping people discover new books, new subjects, new worlds. She pulled things from the shelves here and there and found herself closer to Draco Malfoy than she had ever been, even during their time at school, as she placed book after book in his arms.

She noticed briefly that his forearms were well-formed, pale, with the veins blue and delicate under the skin. It made her stutter before she got a hold of herself and excused herself, letting him settle into one of the large armchairs she'd placed around the shop and browse for himself if he wished.

Before she turned the corner to return to the front counter, she took one last look back - he was sitting with his feet braced, cracking open one of the books (that she was quite fond of herself), and a stream of sunlight broken up by dust motes (she'd really have to talk to Andrea) was catching the light of his hair, brightening the small space.

Hermione settled behind the counter and poured herself a bit more tea, really just to smell the bergamot and calm her frayed nerves. She briefly toyed with the idea of owling Harry and Ginny that evening and telling them who had wandered in; but they were both so busy with the boys, with James old enough to ride a broom now and Albus tumbling around everywhere.

Maybe she'd bring it up in conversation at dinner later that week. Or maybe not, she considered, picturing him again in the chair just a few rows away - the way his shoulders had relaxed in again, the tension dissipating. How scared he had seemed upon seeing her. Scared like he had been at the Final Battle, surrounded by death and mistakes.

If she could give him anything this afternoon, it was a few moments of peace in an out-of-the-way bookshop.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sunday_

As it turned out Hermione didn't say anything about Draco Malfoy at dinner on Sunday. Instead the trio talked about Ron and his sudden flight to Romania, where he would be helping his brother with the dragon sanctuary.

Ginny shook her head and stabbed at a green bean. "I love him to death, but he hasn't always been the most graceful, and dragons require grace."

Harry and Hermione glanced at one another, relieved they hadn't been the ones to say it. Even Charlie - surprisingly lithe for being of a stockier build - came home regularly with fresh burns and sickly glistening skin, to the delight of Fleur and Bill's daughter.

Hermione began to blush as she thought of Charlie. She'd harbored a secret crush on him for the last few months of her relationship with Ron. That had been one of the final signs that the relationship had well and truly run its course, and she had been appropriately mortified at her fascination with the well-muscled sibling.

Even Ron, when the awkwardness of breaking up had eased, agreed. Over drinks on a night out with everyone he'd wave his glass around, insisting, "I was always too worldly for you, 'Mione!"

As if they hadn't gone on the run together. As if she hadn't spent two years in the Liason offices of the Ministry, traveling every other week to foreign countries!

"Are you alright, Hermione?" Ginny asked, leaning toward her. Hermione blinked rapidly and then grinned.

"Yes. Sorry, got a bit distracted."

Harry raised his eyebrows but continued to try and shovel sweet potatoes into Albus' mouth as the toddler squirmed. Ginny sat back and took a sip of wine.

"So what's new with you?" she asked, and at that moment, with her lips parted, Hermione thought she might tell them. Might lean in eagerly and tell them about how Malfoy had wandered into her shop the other day, and stayed for almost an hour browsing in silence. How different he had looked from their school days when he wore black from head to toe and a permanent sneer.

Instead, her mouth snapped shut.

"Nothing." She tried to sound casual, and knew she was trying too hard when Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Just the usual, you know. Trying to keep up with the shop and whatnot."

It sounded ridiculous even to her ears. There wasn't much keeping up to do. Orders were done once a week. She had two other employees who worked most evenings and one day each on the weekend, leaving her Friday and Saturday free. She ignored Ginny's disappointed look and focused instead on the family photos hanging up on the wall. But that only made the hole that was forming in her gut widen.

_Monday_

Draco sat stiffly in the wooden chair, wondering if the war had wiped out all upholsterers. Why else would the Headmistress's office be so void of comfortable surfaces?

He knew, of course, having been a student himself; wouldn't want any of the children who got called up here for reprimanding to be too at ease. But it made for an uncomfortable conversation. Or interview. Was this an interview? He wasn't sure.

For the first time in the last few weeks, the letter wasn't in his pocket. He didn't need it because the writer herself was sitting before him, in all her wrinkled glory. Her direct gaze was still as unnerving as ever.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy, I must admit that sending you the invitation was a long shot. I didn't think you'd answer."

McGonagall leaned back behind the desk and continued to stare openly at him. He sighed. There was nothing for it, then.  
"I was surprised to receive it, to be honest, Headmistress -"

"Please, call me Minerva," she waved off the title. Draco swallowed, even more uncomfortable now.

"I was sorry to hear about Professor Wart, although it sounds as if he got himself into his own mess."

McGonagall sighed. "He did indeed. That man had the students making rare potions! After he was told repeatedly what an appropriate curriculum was. Truth be told, we should have known. He had ties to Mundungus."

Draco tried not to react to the name of the man who had played both sides of the war. Yes, he had been dragged into the Order kicking and screaming - but that hadn't stopped him from selling Dark artifacts to the Death Eaters, who used them to torture muggles and wizards alike.

"The point is," McGonagall continued, "we at Hogwarts find ourselves with a vacant position to fill and the term starting in just over a week. I am aware of your activities since the War," her eyes glinted when Draco's gaze shot up, "as Kingsley is a close friend."

Of course. The Minister. Not as corrupt as those of the past, but he shouldn't be spilling people's secrets. Draco felt a scowl begin to edge at his lips. McGonagall noticed.

"You were a brute of a child, Malfoy. You know that. But it is not my place to forgive you for every questionable deed, every poor decision; even letting the Death Eaters into the castle." Draco flinched, trying to fight off memories of that night. "The point of the War, Mr. Malfoy, was not to wipe out those who were opposed to living with mixed blood. If it was, we'd be just as bad as our enemies."

_Our enemies_. Was he included, then, in her mind? On their side?

"Despite the rumors about me, I do believe in redemption." McGonagall smirked a smirk that any Malfoy would be proud of. "And if you're interested, I would like to offer you the position of Potions Professor. You are indeed the most qualified, given your work in France, and we do like to have our alums return."

Malfoy's mouth was dry. He'd come all this way, yes, even rented a dinky apartment, strolled the streets as if he was acclimating - but he hadn't actually expected her to offer him the job. Not even after the letter, not really. He opened his mouth and made a choked sound.

"Of course you will have quite a full schedule, and we do have accommodations available if you should need to live on campus -"

His voice finally caught up with his brain, and he interrupted his old Professor, leaning forward.

"That won't be necessary, Headmistress. I'm staying in Diagon Alley at the moment and I think -" he hesitated, tempted but not wanting to look at his surroundings, still so reminiscent of Dumbledore. "I think I would like to live off of the grounds, if that's alright."

McGonagall considered him for a moment before nodding. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy. As long as you arrive in a timely manner for each of your classes and supervise a free period twice a week. You are welcome to have meals here, of course."

As she spoke she had begun to unroll a narrow but lengthy stretch of parchment. A self-inking quill appeared quite suddenly in her hand, and she adjusted the spectacles on her nose as she considered the document before her.

"If you don't mind signing here, and then just here, a bit further down. That should conclude our business for today. Term is beginning shortly and I suggest you make time in the next few days to pick up and review the curriculum as well as the stores that Wart has left, if any." She muttered the last part bitterly as Draco scooted the chair forward noisily, taking the quill and scrawling his name in an effortless script.

This was it, then. He'd be tied to Hogwarts for the next seven months.

He thanked McGonagall - "Minvera," she corrected pointedly - and promised to owl her before he would drop by to collect the curriculum, look over the stores, and see to the general upkeep of the classrooms he'd be using.

As Draco walked down the passageways toward the front of the school, he was blind to the few students around him who recognized the infamous war...what was he, then? Not a hero, surely.

Participant.

Why hadn't he agreed to live on the grounds? He glanced into a few rooms, remembering that he had quite liked the set up of the Dark Arts classroom with living quarters up a short turret. It would be easier, surely, to get everywhere on time, and to meet with students as necessary.

"Excuse me," he muttered, brushing shoulders with a professor who turned as he passed and stared.

Draco couldn't help thinking of the flat he was occupying now, three flights up from the street. A short, almost fifteen minute walk away from Granger's shop.

In his mind's eye he was back there again. Golden light seeping in between the shelves and the scent of bergamot and lavender in the air. The sound of Granger humming somewhere nearby.

It had been a long time since he had felt so calm in his own skin.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thursday_

It had been exactly one week to the day that Draco Malfoy had set foot in A New Chapter, and Hermione had spent most of the morning pacing restlessly in the general vicinity of the front counter.

Surely he wouldn't show up again - after all, he'd left with eight books. Not quite enough to impress her, but it was unexpected. Especially given that two of them were recommendations made by her as she had ranted on and on at him in the rows.

The memory brought a flush to her cheeks and she was tempted to literally face-palm. Instead, she forced herself to the back of the shop, where the special orders needed to be sorted and ticketed.

She had managed to work herself into a steady flow of receipts, notes, and stacks interrupted with the occasional need to smell fresh (or ancient) parchment.

And then the bell rang.

Hermione hurried to the front of the store, tripping on the edge of a carpet and barely managing to catch herself. She tossed her head back, slowing tangled locks out of her face, and stood facing Andrea and Rolf, her two employees. Both had their brows raised.

"Hello, then," Andrea quipped, crossing her arms. "Expecting someone?"

Hermione tried not to grimace. She had made the mistake of asking Andrea if a frightfully blond man had been in over the weekend. Andrea, only a year out of Hogwarts and in the bar-frequenting phase of her life, had caught on immediately and blown things out of proportion.

"No need to be so eager, we're just here for the checks. As we always are. Every Thursday." Rolf managed to sound bored no matter what he was talking about, unless it had to do with herbology, which made Hermione wonder if he was somehow distantly related to Neville Longbottom. He had attended Ilvermorny and, although a few years older than Andrea, had an obvious thing for his carefree coworker who didn't seem to be able to take a hint.

"Ah - yes," Hermione stuttered, going behind the counter and leafing through a small pile of envelopes. She pulled out the two that she sealed every week with the shop's characteristic book and quill stamp, and handed them over respectively.

"So," Andrea began, leaning against the counter in a rare moment of camaraderie. "Think he'll come in today?"

Hermione scoffed and fought at the hair trying to crawl its way up her nose. Andrea watched the struggle.

"I see you didn't do anything to tame the beast today - so you're not worried what he'll think, seeing you au-naturale?"

"For your information, he is more than aware of what 'the beast' looks like au-naturale. He did make fun of me for years, after all," she muttered, glaring at her smirking employee.

Rolf chose that moment to suddenly become interested in something other than toadweed and nipsick root. "Ah, of course," he intoned, "the classic - bad boy falls for a good girl."

"I'll have you know -" Hermione spluttered "I was anything but a good girl! It may have been before your time, but when I was your age -"

"We know, you were running through forests, battling Death Eaters, setting professor's robes alight."

Hermione stared, open-mouthed. Where exactly had they heard that last bit?

Andrea took in her expression and grinned. "Ron Weasley's autobiography. He seemed quite miffed about the whole keeper ordeal."

Hermione rolled her eyes, regretting that Harry had ever told Ron about the small instances of rebellion he had so conveniently missed. It had come out just after their breakup, when Ron insisted on going on tangents about how unadventurous she was -something that still put a sour taste in her mouth.

"Well, I'll be off then." Rolf began to edge toward the door, eyeing Andrea. "Just going to get some ice cream I think. Maybe a butterbeer. Who knows." He was side-stepping and it was almost painful how obviously he was pining for her. When it was clear that she wouldn't be tagging along, he ducked out of the door dejectedly, so tall that the lintel grazed his shaved head.

Andrea wiggled her eyebrows, chin resting in her palm. "Just you and me now. Time for some girl talk!"

She moved to come around the counter as Hermione protested, and hopped up onto the corner of it, crossing her ankles.

"There is absolutely nothing to discuss," Hermione insisted, putting the kettle on out of both habit and nerves.

"Oh, come on. As if you'd be running for the door if you weren't interested."

"I can assure you that interested is the last thing I am."

"Really? Is he not handsome, then?"

Hermione considered the question. Was Draco Malfoy handsome? Objectively, yes (ok - even un-objectively. Yes.). She had always known he was in a rather distanced way, with the pureblood girls of Hogwarts lusting after him. Back then she'd seen him as somewhat scrawny - too tall, too lanky, too pale and blonde. So what was it now that had her admitting the fact?

_The years, most likely_, she thought, ignoring Andrea, who was tapping her ankles against the counter._ And - I'm tired_.

It wasn't often that she admitted that to herself. But even the voice in her head was exhausted. She'd been tired just after the war, and she was tired now. It took a lot out of a person to be angry all of the time. And at twenty-five, things weren't so black and white anymore. Once she'd thought she'd be a Ministry worker, climbing the ladder toward Minister (Ministress?) of Magic. And she'd pictured a family, of course, wedged in amongst the career -

"Well?" Andrea interrupted.

Hermione glared at her and yanked the kettle off of the hotplate, ripping open a packet of tea.

"Yes," she snapped, "but that's not the point."

"Of course it is," Andrea began, leaning back and waving her arms, looking as care-free as any nineteen year old, but Hermione interrupted her.

"It's Draco Malfoy."

The war heroine couldn't hide a grin as her employee almost went over backward, catching herself at the last moment. Her mouth was agape.

"What!?"

"Shhhh," Hermione hissed, not used to such loud noises interrupting the sanctuary of the shop.

Andrea ducked her head. "It's Draco Malfoy?" she whispered. "The man who came in the other day, who you've been asking about?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes. So as you can probably guess, I'm not too interested in a tryst."

"Okay. Yeah, of course. But you have to admit...you two have quite a past."

"Yes," Hermione continued, now knelt on the floor organizing her box of tea under the counter, "we do. One that will not play out like all of those romance novels you've been reading around here."

Andrea had the grace to blush, but also grinned back at her boss. "Fair enough. But maybe," she mused, pushing herself off of the counter and crossing her arms, "maybe it isn't all about tension, right? You could make an argument that anyone pursuing someone who bullied them in the past is endorsing abuse. Or is a masochist. I doubt that's why you're so interested in him."

"Of course it's not!"

"Well then, maybe it's _actually_ just that you're a good person." Hermione was looking anywhere but at Andrea; she didn't want to talk about how good she was, because deep down she knew that she wasn't. "Or maybe," Andrea continued, "you're just tired of being angry."


	5. Chapter 5

_Saturday_

The good thing about having employees to order around was that it gave Hermione the weekends off, something she had promised herself when she'd decided to rent out the first floor shop that was A New Chapter.

Of course, it only worked if she actually had plans for the weekend...and she had tonight. Ginny was supposed to meet her at the Withering Vine in Hogsmeade around seven p.m. Instead, Hermione had gotten an owl to the head; somehow Pigwidgeon was still around, and he'd become a fixture of the Potter household when Ron had gone off to Romania.

Hermione had been one firewhiskey deep when she cracked open the small note and groaned. James had been puking all day - _directly on me, if you can believe it_, Ginny had written - and she didn't trust Harry alone, as he didn't handle sick children well, nor did she want to expose her friend to possible illness. So Hermione was on her own.

Not that going out every weekend was a regular thing. She enjoyed quite a few quiet afternoons cooking elaborate dinners for herself and sometimes the Potters or the Longbottoms. Occasionally she stopped reading long enough to pop out for a stroll around the neighborhood. But if she was being honest, usually, she read.

Things had just been too hectic lately for her to stay in. She got like this sometimes, and she knew it -restless. _Or scared_, the voice in her head started to interrupt, and she drowned it with a deep draught of whiskey.

"Another, Miss Granger?" the barkeep asked, wiping the top down vigorously. Hermione nodded.

"Thanks Andy. Might as well get me a menu. It's a bit too late to be making dinner at this rate."

"Mrs. Potter not joining you tonight?"

"No." She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, staring down into the empty glass as it reflected the amber light of the bar. "Family and all."

Andy chuckled and swiped out her empty glass for a full one. "Ah yes. I remember. My Roger was quite dramatic whenever he was sick - not that much has changed." He winked before moving on down the bar, heading toward a lifted hand.

"Hermione? Hermione Granger?"

Hermione stiffened. The voice was familiar, but she couldn't place it. She knew it was going to be bad however; already her skin was crawling.

She turned her face just slightly to see who had fumbled into the chair to her left. Whoever it was, was already long gone so early in the evening, judging by their clumsiness.

"Hello, sweet."

Cormac McLaggen. Merlin, no.

Hermione had had a few run-ins with her old date over the years, but early on she'd always had Ron to cling to. Or crowds of people to disappear into. Here, alone at the bar, she was cornered.

She looked around desperately for Andy, but he was entertaining two women down the bar with a story that had them all bent over laughing. With a sigh, she turned back to the boy - man, she supposed - who she was coming to believe was the bane of her existence.

"Hello, McLaggen."

He frowned at the use of his surname. "Come on now. Certainly we're more...familiar than that." He grinned, and Hermione saw that although he had managed to hold onto his good looks and a figure that had aged relatively well, his teeth were going. One was very obviously discolored.

A touch on her thigh and she looked down to see his fingers there, playing at the edge of the tweed skirt she wore. Her face burned with anger, quick to ignite due to the whiskey she'd already consumed. She opened her mouth to tell him to shove off.

* * *

Draco slipped into the bar and glanced around, hoping that it was early enough in the night to find a dark corner where he could have a drink and calm his nerves.

He'd gotten to the castle relatively easy, but then McGonagall - _Minerva_, she'd corrected - had invited him to dinner, and he'd felt obligated. And of course six other professors were there. Two of whom had no problem openly showing what they thought of the Malfoy heir.

But seventeen years of pureblood upbringing kept him perfectly poised and void of emotion, which probably didn't help their opinion of him in the long run. He'd thanked Minerva, excused himself with the curriculum he'd gotten, and found himself striding off toward Hogsmeade instead of heading home.

It was still a well-frequented area, especially on a Saturday night, and Draco found himself taking a right instead of a left. Away from the Hog's Head, which was undoubtedly full of people who would be even less pleased to see him than his newfound coworkers.

He found himself at a small, out-of-the-way pub called the Withering Vine. Outside, as twilight set in on the cobbled streets, an old wood sign with faded grapes swung lazily in the evening breeze. The light filtering out through the small stained windows was tempting, and he found himself starting toward the door.

Inside the ceiling was low enough that he ducked cautiously. It opened up a few more feet in, and he slipped off his outer robes - his good robes - which he'd worn to the school. Underneath he wore dark trousers and a plain white dress shirt. No tie. His wand was tucked into a specially made holster at his right hip.

Although significantly less crowded than he imagined the Hog's Head would have been, a few patrons turned to see who had entered and quieted when they recognized him. Luckily he didn't recognize any of them. Draco swallowed, avoided eye contact, and started toward the bar.

"Excuse me," he murmured, but he needn't have; the other customers took deliberate steps out of his way. He was so focused on staring at the floor that he almost didn't catch the familiar voice, as obnoxious as ever, coming from down the bar.

Cormac McLaggen.

Draco glanced at his former classmate and begrudgingly admitted that he'd aged well. But he was somehow exuding even more sleaze than he had back in their school days. And the poor woman caught up against the bar was -

Was Hermione Granger.

Draco froze with one hand on the bar top.

"Come on now," he heard, "certainly we're more -"

The rest of the sentence was inaudible as McLaggen leaned into Granger's personal space, crowding the clearly uncomfortable young woman. He could see a tendon in her neck standing out, jaw working, McLaggen's damp looking palm on her thigh. She was reaching for her wand. He could see it there just to the side of the small of her back, where the shirt she was wearing rode up a bit.

Without thinking he took two long strides toward the pair and stood close enough to Granger that McLaggen had to snatch his hand back.

"Cormac," he drawled, looking down his nose in a way that his godfather would have been proud of.

Cormac waited, expecting Draco to say more, but as the silence stretched on he grew more and more visibly uncomfortable. Granger, on the other hand, was relaxing - he could feel her arm brush against his as she let her hand down.

"M-malfoy," Cormac stuttered, and even as he leaned back Draco could smell his rank breath. Alcohol and rot. "What are you doing here? Last I heard you were serving out probation in-"

Granger hissed and McLaggen clamped his mouth shut, sweating now. Draco shook his head.

"As tactless as ever." He knew by the other man's physical reaction that his voice was just as cold as he intended. "You should be going now. I have business to discuss with Miss Granger."

McLaggen scrambled out of the chair and a few feet away before pausing and looking back. He seemed to be unable to decide if he was confused or affronted. Draco realized now that the other patrons had been watching, and it was quiet except for the sound of the barkeep clinking glasses around and a few individuals murmuring.

"Hello, Draco," Granger greeted loudly, having turned in her chair to face him fully. At her words people began to glance at one another, and then go back to chatting, gazes flitting back to weigh the situation. The barkeep made his way toward them and gave Granger a quick glance, narrowed his eyes, seemed to make a decision, and asked, "What'll it be then?"

"A beer, please."

Draco sat because there was really no other choice. McLaggen had left, but he didn't fancy slinking off into a corner now that everyone knew who he was. And the way Granger had greeted him - so deliberately - it would be embarrassing for her if he seemed to dismiss her.

"Thank you," she murmured, glass raised to her lips. She was gazing around the room, stopping occasionally to lock eyes with anyone watching too obviously.

"McLaggen's the one who should be thanking me. I may have just saved him from a nasty hex if my instincts were correct."

"Or a punch in the nose," the witch commented casually, hiding a smile behind her whiskey. Draco stared at her for a moment. Was Hermione Granger joking with him? "Can I ask what you're doing here?"

She said it lightly, but they both knew that the other occupants of the bar were wondering the same. He cleared his throat and took a sip of the beer he'd been served before answering.

"I was up at the castle, actually. Meeting with Minerva." Granger's eyebrows rose almost into her hairline, which - when had she tamed it then? It was still a bit of a mess, but no longer a nest. Her hair fell around her face and framed it in a way that made it look very open and appealing. He found his mouth inexplicably dry again, and took another sip. "McGonagall. Headmistress." Draco closed his eyes.

"Let me start over," he said, adjusting himself on the stool so that they were facing one another more fully. Their knees knocked together, but Granger didn't move. "McLaggen was right, in a way. I've been away in France for the last few years. My probation was over two years ago, but the Headmistress wrote to me. It seems they have an open position, and I've accepted."

"That's wonderful," Granger said, her voice rising in surprise. Draco searched her face for a moment and realized that she meant it.

"It is. For a while there I had considered going into teaching. Back in second year actually."

"Really?" Hermione asked, leaning in closely. Again, she seemed genuinely interested. It made Draco uncomfortable enough to change the subject.

"So what is the brightest witch of our age doing in this bar? Besides serving herself up on a platter to creeps?"

Granger groaned. "Please, please don't call me that. I think we both know I didn't exactly meet the standards of the wizarding world."

"On the contrary, I always did think you were meant for great things. It was one of the things that annoyed me the most about you."

Hermione stared at him and he wished for a moment that he could have taken it back. He was drinking his beer far too quickly; already the barkeep was coming their way to offer a refill.

Draco rolled his cuffs up nervously and caught Hermione glance at his forearms before looking away, a light blush coloring her cheeks. Alright then. They were both sucking them down too quickly.

A surprisingly comfortable silence settled over them as their drinks were refilled. Granger thanked the barkeep quietly and leaned against the counter.

"I appreciate this, by the way. I know you aren't doing yourself any favors by being seen with me in public."

His words seemed to startle her, and she sat up straight again. "It's been seven years, Draco. I'd hope that people have realized those who were wrong have atoned."

He tried to ignore the feeling that his first name on her lips had created, and instead gestured toward the room with his chin. "That isn't the world we live in, Granger, though I appreciate your optimism."

She shook her head and leaned into him again. She'd just taken a sip of her drink, and it made her lips glisten under the dim light. He stared a moment too long, and after realizing that he was, he stood up too quickly. The edges of his vision grew fuzzy.

"I'm sorry, Granger, I need to be going. It's getting a bit late and I have a curriculum to review."

Her mouth was parted and her eyes wide as she stared up at him, confused. Then she nodded.

"Yes. Okay."

He turned to leave, pulling his robes off of the stool and swinging them around gracefully to draw over his long arms. Granger was tucked up into the bar now, her knees close together and head down, staring into her glass. Something in him didn't quite want to leave things this way; awkward. So he said what he said next.

"And Granger - " her head snapped up " - about that business we have. I'm not quite sure what you were doing, recommending that book by Antoine DeLeon to me. I thought you had better sense than to be blinded by such an optimist."

Her eyes narrowed and he saw a fire light within them. It sent a warmth right down his spine.

"Do owl me, Malfoy, if you'd like help re-arranging that curriculum. After all, I was first in our year. Every year."

Turning quickly to hide his smile, Draco barely noticed the patrons considering him as he moved toward the door. None of them had expected this in such a quiet, cozy bar - ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy appearing after years of absence, chasing a suitor away from Golden Girl Hermione Granger.

A few individuals a bit too far into their drink contemplated what an outlet like the Prophet would pay for a story like this - but one sweeping look from the war heroine drove all such thoughts from their minds, and they turned back to their beer and their quiet conversations.


	6. Chapter 6

_Tuesday_

Draco had done everything he could to avoid visiting the Manor, but he was out of excuses.

It was his, of course - after his father's imprisonment in Azkaban and the shaking of the Malfoy vaults, the Ministry had worked out a deal with the Malfoy family. Part of Lucius' sentence was that he would relinquish all assets to his son, as long as Draco completed probation satisfactorily. And he had, enough that the Ministry seemed to have forgotten about him entirely, except for the letter he'd received on his twenty-first birthday stating that everything was now his.

So he wasn't the heir any longer, but that was how he saw himself and how he assumed the wizarding world would continue to see him. Especially considering the recent headline that had appeared Monday: Malfoy Heir Back in Town - Is He Making Amends?

Beneath was a photo of him leaving the Withering Vine. In it, he stepped out, looked both ways, and then strolled to the left and out of the frame. Thank Merlin Granger hadn't tried to leave at the same time.

His mind had wandered back to the witch often since their second unintentional meeting, and he fought off any thoughts of her now. He had other things to worry about.

Out in the street below his flat, Draco walked two doors over to a small fountain. A lion's gaping maw tumbled water out onto an attractive array of white stones. He paused and regarded it only briefly before the crack of apparition.

* * *

The manor had been well maintained. That was clear. The stonework was ancient but clean, the iron gate still rust-free. Draco reached out to tug it open (it opened to anyone of Malfoy descent without trouble) and stopped as a white peacock strutted by.

He'd always hated the peacocks. They could be vicious animals.

Once inside the gate closed itself behind him and he walked quickly up to the front steps. The door opened before he had the chance to knock, and on the other side stood Dipsy, an elderly house elf who knew him well.

She eyed him openly before stepping aside. Not something she ever would have done had Lucius still been present. Draco's eyebrows raised in amusement, and he murmured thanks as he stepped into the foyer.

His mother was already walking toward him, and although she remained poised, her face lit up as soon as she saw him. He smiled abashedly back and let her hug him a bit too tight.

"My son," she said quietly, holding him out at arm's length and appraising him. "You look well. It's been...too long."

Seven years. He could have visited, after those two years of probation, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to it. Not after everything he'd witnessed here. Even now it was hard to keep his gaze focused on his mother instead of scanning the surroundings to re-live every torturous moment.

"It has been. I'm sorry -" he began, but Narcissa shook her head.

"No. Don't apologize. To see you at all is enough. Although to be honest," she continued, turning and leading him further into their home, "I would have seen you soon anyway. Dipsy has been helping me pack. I'll be moving to the chalet in France, near Fources."

Draco nodded slowly, taking the information in. "You did always love that chalet. But we would have just missed one another. I've moved back to London, and accepted a job here."

His mother turned with obvious surprise on her face. It wasn't something she would have allowed anyone, even her own son, to see at one time - and it was a sign that things had changed. Hopefully, for the better, though it was unnerving to see Narcissa express emotion so recklessly.

"Oh?" she asked, sitting abruptly at a small sitting area just inside of the gardens. Draco dropped to the small settee in relief. This room didn't hold any memories he wasn't willing to re-live. The Dark Lord had never liked the gardens. Except that one corner where poisonous plants were grown.

"Yes. Actually, I've been offered the position of Potions Professor at Hogwarts."

Narcissa surveyed him with narrowed eyes, looking for a hint of how he was affected by this decision. But Draco hadn't learned yet to be as revealing as his mother. He looked away from her gaze and around the small room, noticing that portraits of some of the more vile relations were missing, their empty spots on the wall lighter than the rest.

"That's good," his mother said, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. Dipsy snapped into appearance holding a tea tray with biscuits on it, and Draco reached for one automatically. The bony house elf smacked his wrist and he jerked it back, watching in shock as she put the tray down carefully. Narcissa was smiling a small smile.

"Thank you, Dipsy," she said, gesturing that Draco should take what he wanted. He glared at the elf as she winked out of existence again.

"Quite an attitude, that one," he muttered, helping himself to a biscuit. Narcissa laughed.

"Yes. I find the change in their demeanor to be refreshing. Dipsy is much more open to telling me the happenings of the world, you know." She glanced up at her son as she poured herself a cup of tea. "I don't get out much," she confessed.

The fact made Draco's chest ache, though he'd known it all along. After the trials, his family name had disappeared from the papers rather quickly, as the Malfoy's had hung their heads and gone about their penitence.

Other pureblood families hadn't. The Goyles, for example, fought tooth and nail until every male in their bloodline had been imprisoned. The women squandered the vaults quickly without any background in handling the family finances. Last he heard, Goyle's older sister had been forced to marry a Bulgarian. A cruel man, but one with money.

"So you're leaving, then," Draco stated, leaning back.

"Yes. I was going to owl you this week, but I had heard mention that you were around, and knew that you would make time to come by." She fixed him with a look that let him know she'd seen the paper. He wished now that he'd read the full article. "You're welcome to move in, of course -"

But Draco was already shaking his head. "I've taken a flat just outside of Diagon Alley. I think I'll stay there."

Narcissa didn't say anything, but he could sense her approval. She looked around them, seeming tired suddenly.

"Yes. I can't blame you for that. Seven years and we still haven't managed to scrub all of the evil from the corners." She said it bitterly, and Draco wondered how long she'd been longing to get out. Like him, she'd had probation, but it didn't involve work. Just a house arrest of sorts and her presence at at least two charity events a year - something she had enjoyed before the war without it being a punishment.

He noticed that her hair had lightened considerably more; the grey areas that had always given her a sophisticated air streaked much of the right side of her head, lightening her eyes. Just past them, in a small study that had been her own, he could see a few luggage containers stacked.

"I've run into Granger," he said then, wanting to give her something hopeful to consider. Some kind of light in all of the shadows in this place, until she was gone from it. "Twice."

Narcissa waited for him to continue, sipping her tea. Draco cleared his throat and felt his face heating. Why was he blushing?

"She runs a shop now -"

"I remember," his mother murmured. "It was quite the scandal."

Draco quirked an eyebrow. "Was it?"

Narcissa sat back and settled into the couch, hands folded primly in her lap. "Miss Granger did spend a few years at the Ministry, if I remember correctly. There was talk of her pursuing the position of Minister someday and she seemed to be...hot on the trail. But then one day the papers were all reporting that she'd rented out a shop and filled it with books."

Draco snorted. "Not much of a surprise there. She did live in the library at Hogwarts."

"And she did great things during the war. And the reparations."

Draco looked away. He himself had been part of the reparations, helping to rebuild areas of muggle towns that had been decimated and ransacked by Death Eaters. "I found the shop," he said, gaze going back to his mother. "By accident. And she was...kind."

Narcissa didn't look surprised by that. They sat in silence for a few moments, both watching steam curl up from their teacups.

"Well then, perhaps you've found a friend," Narcissa murmured, and Draco felt the hope he'd been trying to stir in her warm his own chest. He looked away again, embarrassed by his emotions.

"Perhaps."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author note: **Hey everyone! Thanks for staying along for the ride :) I appreciate any reviews or suggestions. Keep in mind that this is going to be a bit of a slow burn, but I'm planning on picking up the pace soon enough.

* * *

_Thursday_

_Miss Granger,_

_I'm surprised you included The Tales of Beedle the Bard on your list of recommended reading. If you can believe it, it's a book I enjoyed immensely as a child. Until Lucius caught me reading it and decided that I was too old for that foolishness._

_But I found it a refreshing addition to your other, heavier, suggestions. Thank you again._

_D. Malfoy_

...

_Draco, _

_I'm happy you discovered it once again, then. I have a sentimental attachment to the book; Dumbledore gave me the copy that I own. Or rather, he left it to me. It played a key role in defeating the Dark Lord actually - maybe if Lucius had let you read it, you'd have been able to point us in the right direction all those years ago. _

_I'd be happy to provide another list of reading if you're already so far through the books you bought at the shop. _

_-Hermione Granger_

_..._

_Miss Granger,_

_That would be greatly appreciated. I'd be happy to stop by later in the week, if you're free. Term begins Monday and I'd like to have a few options in my office to keep me occupied during free periods. _

_I would also be interested in hearing more about the role that The Beedle played in the war if you ever want to spin your own tale. But don't feel obligated. It's a nice thought, that I was a bit closer to the light without realizing it._

_D. Malfoy_

...

_Draco,_

_If you really want to re-live the war, I can tell you about the days we spent on the run. Although if you remember correctly, you interrupted us at the time. But it's good to know you weren't as far gone as we all feared you were. _

_Come by the shop whenever you're free. I'd like to hear about your first few days at Hogwarts. Once, a long time ago, I thought I'd find a place there myself. _

_PS - please call me Hermione._

* * *

_Tuesday_

Hermione wasn't sure why, but it irked her that Draco referred to her as Miss Granger. It was much too formal, and although she'd interacted with purebloods often in the wizarding world, she'd never get used to their heavy formalities.

Not that she wanted Malfoy to go back to calling her the _"m" _word, but she didn't like him like this either. At least back in Hogwarts there had been some life in that smirk of his. Now, when she thought back to the brief moments she'd seen him in the shop, the memory of his slouched shoulders made her frown.

She was tidying up a shipment at the shop when the owl that she'd come to associate with Draco swooped through the door and landed gracefully on the counter. It was a modest bird, well-mannered (not surprising, considering its owner) and dark in color, with startlingly gold eyes.

"Hello," she murmured to him, moving gently so as not to spook him. He blinked lazily up at her before offering a leg, where the note was tied securely.

After she removed it the owl hooted, took two hops, and soared back through the open door. Hermione stared after him.

"Well, I guess Mafloy isn't expecting a reply."

The note was short and to the point:

_Hermione,_

_I didn't want to surprise you too much, so I thought I'd give you a heads up. I'll be arriving shortly straight from Hogwarts. _

_I wouldn't mind a cup of tea, if you happen to have the kettle on._

_D.M._

Hermione glanced at the counter where she did, in fact, have the kettle on. She hurried back and dug out the box of assorted tea she kept there for just such occasions, sweeping up the order she'd been tidying and stacking it all carefully to the side. She'd just finished fluffing up the receipts and invoices when she heard the crack of apparition out in the street, and a few moments later Draco Malfoy stepped through the door.

"Hello," he said, glancing around as he moved carefully into the entranceway.

Hermione assumed he was looking to make sure that no one was around, and that, with the strange slump to his shoulders, made her mind for her.

"Hullo. I thought we might have tea out front, if you don't mind. I've been inside all day and could use the fresh air."

Draco seemed taken aback by her abrupt greeting and bustling. She levitated the tea kettle and two cups before her, carrying the box, and tilted her head at her guest as she passed to indicate that he should follow. He did.

Outside he was even more clearly ill-at-ease, and it was obvious that it must be the public he was avoiding. Two women walked by and stared a bit two long at the pair as Hermione settled into one of the chairs at the small set of patio furniture she kept out on the alley.

"Draco?" she asked, and her use of his first name seemed to startle him back to the moment.

He sat quickly and glanced around once more before taking the cup of tea that she offered, thanking her.

"So, how was the first day of term yesterday?" she asked conversationally, though the two of them were still easing into this strange acquaintance.

"It was...enlightening," he confessed, seeming to relax a bit. "Actually I never realized just how nervous the professors must be. Possibly even more nervous than the students."

"It went well, though?" Hermione asked, and she knew that he knew what exactly she was asking; had the students taken well to the fact that a Malfoy was teaching them?

"Well I'm not exactly inconspicuous," he muttered, dipping his head down and proving his point simultaneously. The low afternoon sunlight glinted off his blonde head, drawing her eyes. "Minerva made sure to stop in a few times during the day. She has been very welcoming."

Hermione tried to meet his eyes just as he was avoiding her gaze. When it was finally too awkward and possibly rude for him to continue, his glance held a guilt she hadn't expected to see. Where was the arrogance of the Malfoy family?

"You've paid more than enough," she said quietly, reaching a hand out toward his own but not touching his.

She meant literally, but figuratively as well. The Mafloy estate had been heavily fined to help pay for reparations. And during the trials, Draco had been forced to take veritaserum. She'd known it was necessary, but none of them had realized how weighted their classmates' memories would be. Crabbe had actually, to everyone's horror, begun crying as he talked about his father torturing him.

And although Mafloy's answers had hinted more toward Lucius preferring verbal and mental abuse, it was clear that his childhood hadn't been a happy one. Even with Narcissa shielding him, as she had so clearly tried to do at the family's trial.

Now the person sitting before her was no longer a child, but neither was he a complete man; he seemed not to have healed at all. It was like looking at a tree that had tried to grow up around some imposing object, and had ended up deformed.

"Where did you go, after?" she asked quietly.

Malfoy put his cup of tea down on the table and couldn't look away from her eyes.

"I was sent to France, with a probation officer. For my first two years there I worked for a medical company preparing potions. When my time was up, I stayed, and they let me tweak recipes for mass production. But mostly I worked on the harder, more rare potions."

Hermione watched his throat bob as he swallowed and waited to hear more. He seemed compelled to continue talking, as if they were in front of the Wizengamot again and he had been dosed with the truth serum.

"I just didn't want to sleep, then, I needed to stay occupied, and so I took on any potions that involved moonlight or special conditions. They let me travel a bit near the end. To collect rare ingredients mostly. And I would have continued to do so, except that then Professor - Minerva's letter arrived, and I felt like I needed to...to.."

"Tie up loose ends?" Hermione asked quietly.

She'd seen it before. Theodore Nott, although he'd been completely acquitted of any involvement in the war or with the dark wizards, had made the rounds shortly after and apologized to each and every person he could find. Crabbe as well, after a few years of therapy, had written letters; Harry, Ron, and Hermione had gotten one from him, though none had replied, preferring to keep silent. Even Pansy Parkinson publically apologized to Harry for wanting to turn him over at the end. She allowed quite a few papers to release a four-page long statement in which she repented for her actions and promised to move forward in a positive light, which she seemed to be doing via charities.

But Draco had disappeared so quickly that he'd missed any possible opportunity to make amends. And now he was back. And in front of her, at a bookshop that she owned.

All of it seemed so absurd.

"Do you find it ironic that you've succeeded where I've failed?" Hermione asked him bluntly, and Draco actually leaned back at her words.

"What -" he asked, and she cut him off, leaning in.

"Listen, Malfoy. I've had everyone tiptoeing around me since the day we won the war. Since the day they told me my parents wouldn't be back. You, of all people, I would expect to be honest with me. You owe me that."

They were both surprised by the bite in her words, but Hermione was determined. She stared into his startled eyes - grey, a very light grey, which she recalled noticing the day she'd punched him in the nose - and silently urged him on.

He swallowed quite visibly.

"You're right, Granger."

The world suddenly righted itself as he used her surname, a soft growl back in his voice. _This _was the beginning of the Malfoy she remembered.

"I owe you that, and much more. An apology, for starters. I know I didn't do that," he glanced at the white scar on her arm spelling out the slur, which she no longer tried to cover up with glamors or muggle make up, "but I could have said something that day, and I didn't. I could have been the one to let Potter out instead of the house elf. I could have tried to leave with you. But I stayed."

He leaned toward her, their faces only inches apart, the pair of them unaware that customers out for their evening shopping were slowing and staring.

"I stayed and I watched people we knew die on the floor of the Manor. Right where she carved into you. I may not be guilty, but I'm not innocent, either. And no," he continued, sitting back once more, "I don't find it ironic that I'm where I am and you're where you are. I find myself lucky. And you, perhaps luckier."

Hermione frowned, confused by his words.

How could she be lucky? Once, she had dreamt of running for Minister; of marrying Ron, of becoming Headmistress herself perhaps, of running charities and making speeches. But instead she hid out in a small, dim shop each day, surrounded by books, speaking to almost no one at all.

Draco rolled his sleeves up and she stared at his pale forearms, crisscrossed by thin scars not unlike her own.

"The students are scared of me," he said in a dead voice, "but I'm more scared of them."

"So use your name against them," Hermione replied.

Draco was shaking his head. "I don't ever want to intimidate anyone-"

"Stop being such a wanker," she interrupted. "You're stuck with the name, Malfoy. You can be intimidating without being cruel. You can be strong without being harmful. Stop letting everyone else tell you who you are. Your mother would be ashamed."

* * *

Draco sat across from Hermione Granger, staring at his former classmate, whose face was hard. He hadn't expected her to be so blunt. Actually, he'd rather thought she would gracefully accept his apology, and then they'd talk about books, and maybe she'd mention forgiveness and not living in the past and all of that hogwash that he'd heard a thousand times.

Instead she'd called him a wanker and practically challenged him to go back to being his old self.

He'd spent years fighting that back; ducking his head and keeping his mouth shut until the only thing still Malfoy-ish about him was his hair and the name on his vaults.

But looking at Granger, her own hair and eyes wild with a kind of crazed determination, was causing something buried deep inside of him to rise. She looked like she wanted to hit him just then.

And he found himself wanting to fight back; not against her, but against the world, and all of the people who were still telling him who to be.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author Note:** Please leave a review if you have a moment! It would be much appreciated.

* * *

_Wednesday_

Hermione had taken to sitting out in front of the shop at the small table and chair set she'd occupied with Draco Malfoy only a week ago. When she had free time, she sat back for a cup of tea, or delved into a new book (more often than not).

Luckily she was so boring these days that no one stopped to oogle her. Not the way they did Luna, who had become one of the most influential clothing designers in the wizarding world, or Oliver Wood, the notorious Quidditch correspondent.

She was sitting outside reading the newest book from Merla Heartkind (yes, even Hermione Granger liked to read the occasional mindless romance. Especially when her own love life was so...lacking), enjoying one of the last warm afternoons of the season when Ron Weasley appeared quite suddenly in front of her. Duck footed, of course.

"Mione!" he exclaimed, pulling the other chair out and plunking down.

"Ron - you're home? What are you -?" she asked, holding her place in the book with a thumb.

"I'm just back for a bit. Mom's birthday and all, you know. Heading over to Harry and Ginny's tonight for dinner."

Hermione tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut. Harry and Ginny had their own busy lives, but as it really too much to ask that they shoot her an owl to let her know Ron was coming back? And why hadn't they said anything about dinner?

She blinked and the redhead in front of her was grinning, legs splayed out before him on the cobblestones. "Alright there Mione? Lost in your thoughts again eh?"

She had the sudden, blinding urge to hit him, but instead she put her book down calmly. "How long are you staying?" she asked.

"Only a few days. They're expanding the sanctuary, you know, so I need to be back in time for that. You wouldn't believe how insane the illegal market for hatchlings is right now. If you'd stayed at the Ministry maybe you could've done something about it."

Hermione could only grin back at him, though a small part of her brain registered that from the apprehensive look on he was giving her, it was a bit of a maniacal grin.

"You look well," she said, and meant it. Even after the war Ron had remained tall and a bit lanky. Working in Romania had filled him out a bit, and for a very brief moment she was appreciative of the way his dragonhide jacket stretched across his shoulders. He caught her looking and smirked, but then his face clouded, and he was the rare, serious version of Ronald that she hadn't seen in a long time.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that, Hermione. I would say you look well, as well, except that I've been...hearing things."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You've been seen with Draco Malfoy. More than once as I understand it." Hermione's brows knit. "And I know you've been a bit...lost, after the war, and your parents and that brief stint at the Ministry, but really Mione, Malfoy isn't the kind of charity work you need to be doing if you know what I mean." Ronald seemed pleased at his own quip, and he leaned back. "I was going to leave you to it all," he continued, gesturing around them vaguely, "but I know how much of a recluse you are these days, and I just thought that someone ought to set you straight. Obviously Harry and Ginny weren't planning to."

So Harry and Ginny knew about Malfoy, then? Or at least that they'd been seen together. And they were so unbothered by the happenings of her life that they hadn't even reached out to check in on her. No, instead her ex, the arrogant ass, had come to _set her straight._

"Ronald Weasley," she began quietly, "I appreciate your concern, as I'm sure you meant it kindly coming from that very small brain of yours." Ron's face twisted in confusion. "But I would appreciate it even more if you took it upon yourself to _stay out of my business."  
_

She stood and knocked the book off of the table, forgetting about it entirely. "Do enjoy dinner tonight with Potter and your sister," she spat, and was about to tell him to make his way back to Romania safely, but the ginger scoffed.

"Looks like Malfoy has _gotten into you a bit,_" he said, tone heavy with innuendo, and Hermione felt her face heat. She stalked around the table and into the shop, leaning against the door aggressively to get it to shut. It was an old thing, but still cumbersome.

With Ron safely on the other side of it, she flicked her wrist, and the sign in the window changed from _Open _to _Closed. _The witch huffed and marched into the rows of books. She had better things to do than dwell on the concerns of her self-important ex and the people she had once called friends, who seemed to have suddenly forgotten how to reach her. Or that she existed at all.

* * *

Draco hadn't been expecting to run into Hermione at all after their last meeting, as he needed time to sort out her heavy words, and wasn't sure that continuing a friendship with Granger was the right thing for either of them.

After all - she would always be the Golden Girl. And no matter how reformed he was, he'd always be seen as the darkness tainting her.

But he went into his second week at Hogwarts with a bit more confidence and did, in fact, take a page out of his godfather's book. Looking down his nose at students seemed to do well enough in most cases. With the more stubborn ones - who reminded him disturbingly of himself and the sly gang of Slytherins he'd roamed around with - he had to use his father's cold voice, which he stubbornly chose to ignore was coming from his own mouth quite naturally.

Wednesday evenings he had free of classes and any extracurricular duties. McGonagall - he'd never be able to think of her as _Minerva _to himself - had made sure to give him a decent amount of time to himself. Especially since his re-working of the curriculum was vigorous and included much more supervised potions making in the student's spare time.

However tonight he'd put a note on his door stating that any student work would have to either wait or go on without him. Draco wanted to write a letter to his mother, who had left for France the day before. Despite the fact that they hadn't seen each other for a period of seven years, Draco found himself missing her fiercely at the moment. He tried not to think that Granger's words had had anything to do with it. After all, Narcissa Malfoy would have approved of the muggle-born's direction, and he found it disturbing to think that the two might actually get along under other circumstances. Both so strong-headed and full of pride.

Draco greeted Professor Vector, who was still teaching Arithmancy and seemed to have not cared either way who he was or what his past was like. She offered him tight nods in the hallway and from what Draco heard whispered among the students, ran her classes as tightly as he ran his own.

He was just rounding the corner toward his personal rooms on the second floor when he noticed a dark shadow hunched in the far corner of the wing to his left. Pausing, his eyes narrowed as he wondered what this student could possibly be up to. This part of the castle was reserved almost entirely for staff housing and offices. They could only have something rambunctious planned.

So, led on by a sense of duty, Draco's feet turned and started down that way. The sound of his heels tapping against the stone was loud and hopefully intimidating. But the shadow made no move as he approached. If anything, it hunched in even further on itself.

He would recognize that mess of hair anywhere. Although when he had seen her last week, at the shop, it had been much more tame.

"Granger?" he asked, shocked. What was she doing here?

But Granger didn't lift her head, which was buried in her crossed arms, propped on her knees. Her shoulders were heaving and shaking.

_Please don't be crying, _Draco thought, and reached a hand out tentatively. He felt the whisper of wild fly-aways on his fingertips before he touched her shoulder lightly. It only made her quake more.

Abandoning all sense of professionalism, Draco squatted down to her level and tried to get a look at her face. "Granger," he tried again, a sense of urgency in his voice now. What was she doing here?

That's when he noticed a few books, bound in newsprint, scattered nearby. Had she been attacked? Although still divided by houses, Hogwarts was no longer a place for house animosity. It was unlikely that Slytherins, even ones who's families had been involved in the war, would attack a full-grown and notorious witch.

Granger's head lifted minutely and he was able to catch her eye, which was wide, the pupil large and dark.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Stupid. Of course she wasn't okay.

She muumbled something and he leaned in closer, her hair brushing his chin and lips now. She lifted her head a bit more and repeated: "Just talk, please."

"Talk?" he asked, but she didn't respond. Her shoulders were still trembling. He could see, now that he was closer, that her entire body was trembling - her knees, her sides, even the toes of her sensible shoes.

"Talk," he repeated, and sat back on his haunches a bit. "Well, I'm pretty sure I've met a relative of Seamus Finnigan's today, although I didn't ask directly. A second year in my fourth block managed to blow up a cauldron of calming drought. I have no idea how - I've been wracking my brain all day, actually, to try and think what he could have done with the ingredients assigned -" Draco's eyes narrowed, although Hermione didn't see it. "Unless he did it on purpose, the little -"

He broke off again and glanced down at Hermione. The quaking had slowed to an intermittent shake. She seemed to be trying to breathe deeply.

"I was just going to write my mother," he continued gently, not sure why this was the next topic to spill from his mouth, "about our conversation. I suspect she would approve of your assessment. She never did want me to be like my father, but that doesn't mean she wouldn't want me to be strong. And proud of myself. Of the things I've accomplished."

Hermione's head finally came up out of her arms a decent amount. Draco breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. "You could accompany me, if you like, to my chambers." He felt the tips of his ears redded and hurried to clarify. "I have an office and you could sit there until you feel yourself. It seems you still have a task to complete, though for the life of me I'm not sure why you'd be here."

Hermione placed a palm on the ground and began to push herself up slowly, Draco rising with her as she went. He held one hand close to her elbow. She wasn't entirely balanced. When they were standing at full height, he realized that she reached only to his chin. She was left staring at his chest and his professor's robes.

The pair turned and began slowly back down the hall, toward Draco's chambers. He flicked his wand in an intricate pattern and a symbol glowed briefly on the door before the lock clicked.

He held the door open as Hermione stepped in, seeming to be both zoning out and surveying the area.

Now he took her by the elbow and led her to the left. A small room where he had a desk and two chairs, as well as a few bookshelves. He planned on using it to meet with students who needed extra help or wanted to discuss their projects. But for now, it was still a personal space, with an open pack of sugar quills on the desktop next to a candle, wax press, and writing materials. Draco flushed at the sight of his old quidditch jersey, which he'd dug out of a trunk and had been reminiscing over. But Hermione was staring at it now and seemed to be coming back to herself.

"I'm sorry," she said as he moved around the desk, taking a seat in the comfortable chair he'd had shipped from his apartment in France. He hadn't kept much; this chair and the books surrounding him were most of it. But it felt enough like home.

"They don't usually come on anymore," Granger continued, sitting across from him, unbothered by the fact that he had no idea what she was talking about. "It's just been such a trying day. Ron is back, for a few days," her eyes flickered briefly up at him and he wondered why she cared what he might think about that. "And it seems I've been excluded from the welcome home dinner." The obvious misery on her face was painful, and Draco fought the urge to cringe. When had Granger become so vulnerable?

"Anyway," she said crisply, crossing her legs and sitting up, "I'm much better now, thank you. Usually all it takes is a distraction. I appreciate you talking to me while I worked through it."

"_It?_"

Granger flushed, the color causing the few freckles on her face to disappear. "A panic attack," she all but muttered, not meeting his gaze now. "I used to get them a lot just after the war. PTSD, they told me at St. Mungo's, although I find it odd that I never had them during -"

It made sense. Countless witches and wizards had been diagnosed with panic attacks following the war, some of them only on the very fringes of it, reading about the tragic events in papers. Of course Granger - who had been hip deep in the mess - would have been affected as well.

"I'm sorry you've had to deal with them," Draco said softly, hands clasped in his lap. Hermione was surveying the room now, but half-heartedly. She didn't even try to read the titles of the books on the shelves.

"They really aren't so bad anymore. It's just when unexpected things happen, and then I have this tendency to ignore how I feel about all of it, whether I'm upset or just emotional, and it all catches up to me and I end up -" her eyes swung back to meet his across the desk - "in the heap that you found me in. I apologize, again, for that."

Draco shook his head. "Not at all, Granger. To be honest, I thought you might be a pair of students out for a tryst. If you don't mind my asking, what exactly are you doing here?"

Hermione seemed entertained by the thought that he'd expected two hormonal teenagers, and then the way her eyes darted around told him that she was looking for the packages. Of course. He'd been so focused on getting her settled somewhere that he'd forgotten the books.

"The Headmistress, she special ordered a few volumes, and I wanted to deliver them myself. One was quite expensive and I don't always trust the mail to follow through appropriately."

Draco nodded, considering the witch in front of him. Had she gone to therapy, then, for these panic attacks? And if so, was this how she had appeared? Meek and sheltered in on herself. Perusing her surroundings without really seeing anything at all.

The thought made him both sad and angry.

"Listen, Granger. You told me to buck up and stop playing into people's ideas of who I am or should be." This drew her attention back to him again. He leaned forward, suddenly very comfortable at this desk, in this room, in a position of respect and authority. "I should think you'd be doing the same. So what if Weasley has returned? There's a reason it didn't work out. And if your friends can't be bothered to communicate with you, then why should their opinion of you matter at all?"

He knew from the look on her face that she was wondering how he'd hit the nail so perfectly on the head. But of course it was because he was in a very similar position.

She considered him for a few moments before speaking again, seeming to choose her words carefully. "They're concerned," she said, "about you. It appears we didn't go quite as unnoticed as we'd thought. Ron felt the need to stop by the shop and check in on me. And apparently Harry and Ginny are also concerned that we've been seen in one another's presence."

Everything, this whole situation and conversation, suddenly took on a whole new meaning. Draco felt a sliver of responsibility and guilt for the position she'd been in earlier, terrified in a hall at Hogwarts. Just being near her was stirring up things that were sending her into a shutdown.

Before he could even begin to think of how to respond, Granger surprised him with the strength in her voice. "I don't regret it," she said, and her eyes were hard and alight now. This was the Granger he remembered, the one who had punched him square in the nose. He pulled back involuntarily. "In fact, you're right. I shouldn't let their concerns dictate my life when they aren't even willing to learn what's going on in it."

Draco was nodding in agreement, having come to the same conclusion over the past few days, when he was surprised by her next words: "Would you like to have tea again sometime, Draco? Maybe before the start of next week?"

The use of his first name brought a shiver down his spine, and he could only stare at the witch across from him. It took him a few moments to realize that her confidence in that statement was deteriorating a bit; her shoulders were pulling in, her chin dropping. But Merlin be damned if he was going to be the one to make her second-guess herself.

"I'll take you up on that, Granger," he agreed, shocking himself as much as his visitor. "Just make sure you have more of that jasmine tea. It's my favorite."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: **I've written this chapter three times now, because for some reason the doc manager keeps deleting it. I'm sorry this is such slow going - it will pick up soon! In the meantime, I would appreciate any comments or suggestions on where you would like to see these two go :)

* * *

**Friday**

Hermione was rushing.

Specifically, around her flat, looking for something appropriate to wear. To Draco Malfoy's flat. Which she had just found out was only about fifteen minutes away.

_I've left the floo open, _he'd written, _so you won't have to walk over. It's late. But you did promise me tea before Monday, Granger, and it's Sunday eve. I've got potions to grade, but I wouldn't mind some company. If you're up for it, that is._

She had the note crumpled in her hand as she rushed back toward the attached bathroom, taking a quick glance at the top she had on. It was a blouse.

_Too much, _she admonished herself. _It's just tea. On a Sunday. Reel it in, Hermione._

She finally dropped the note onto her nightstand and dug through the dresser for a simple t-shirt. It would have to do. There was no point in over-thinking it anymore.

Walking back through the hallway and out into the living room, Hermione pointedly ignored the real reason she was worrying about what to wear - another note, discarded on the floor of the kitchen.

It was less stressful to worry about the right kind of shirt than the fact that her friends were demanding her presence.

_I know Ron can be a pain in the ass. But he means well. And to be honest, we're concerned too. You tell us nothing is going on, but you've been seen around with Malfoy._

She could almost understand that. Yes, she'd purposely left out his re-emergence. Even seven years after the war it would be more than just a blip on their radar. They didn't know how harmless he was now, how subdued. Although Hermione doubted that Ginny would be sympathetic in anyway; she still, to this day, had a hard time fraternizing with Slytherins. Once in a while she even worried aloud that James or Albus might end up in that house instead of any of the other three.

It wasn't that they wanted to talk to her. It was the last two sentences that Ginny had scrawled at the bottom of the scrap of paper, next to an ambiguous stain; _It isn't just Malfoy. You've been off the rails for years, Hermione, and it's time to get back on track._

She didn't want to think about it right now. She just wanted to keep moving. Which was why she walked straight to the floo, grabbed a handful of powder, and stepped through, reciting clearly: "Fourteen Giltspur Walk."

* * *

Draco was just in the middle of jotting down the last notes for his third block class when Granger stumbled through into the living room. He looked up, surprised despite the invitation he'd sent her only about an hour before, and the two stared at one another.

Part of him hadn't been completely convinced she'd come. But there she was, standing in the living room, barefoot.

His eyes were on her feet a bit too long and when Granger noticed she curled her toes. Then chucked her chin up in that characteristic, defiant way, and strode toward him.

"Where's the tea?"

Draco started, realizing that he hadn't actually put any on.

"Ahh - give me a minute. I got caught up in this last batch."

He shuffled around the kitchen, ignorant of the fact that Hermione had leaned across the counter and was carefully examining the groups of vials.

"So what are they working on?" she asked, tipping one to the light.

"A few healing potions." He glanced at her, caught the look she was giving him, and felt the flush rise from the base of his throat. "I just wish they had taught us more along those lines when we were in school. Everything with the war...the people I saw come in and out of the manor." Her expression had softened as he spoke. "I couldn't have helped anyone then, but it's still something that I wish I had known."

He concentrated on pouring perfectly even amounts of hot water into two mugs, and then steeped chamomile. It was already late, and they could probably both use it.

When he turned around Granger was looking closely at the consistency of the potions. "What is this?" she asked quietly.

Draco glanced at the notebook he'd left, but he already knew. He'd had this assignment planned since he'd seen her Wednesday night.

"Something for the fifth years. I thought they might as well learn to brew it now, what with O. at the end of the year." He was rambling, and she was watching him closely. He cleared his throat. "It's for anxiety."

Draco knew that she knew the real reason he'd assigned it. Seeing her folded over in the corridor, staring blankly and terrified. Not that something as simple as an anxiety-reducing potion would help her...

He waited for the anger and defiance to surface, but the potion seemed to have the opposite effect. Instead, she glanced over at his notes.

"A pen? You're using a muggle pen?"

He brought the tea over and sat across from her, watching as she pulled the notebook toward herself.

"In France, I wasn't allowed to have a lot of magical items outside of work. That included quills and ink. Which is ridiculous, because you can buy them un-charmed. To be honest though I prefer the pens. I've knocked bottles of ink over one too many times."

Hermione smiled, still browsing his notes. "You're a tough grader," she remarked.

It was then, with Hermione perched at his countertop, her chin in her hand, that Draco noticed the note. His note. It was crumpled, but she must've brought it with her.

Part of him was stirred by that fact. It meant she'd been caught off guard, and wasn't as put together as he always remembered her being in school. Minus that untameable head of hair.

Speaking of which. She had it pulled back in some kind of simple braid, wisps falling around her ears and jaw. Draco was tempted to reach out and touch it, see if it was as wiry as it had always looked. He had a feeling it wasn't.

"To be honest, Granger, I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you would have something better to do than spend your time with a recluse such as myself."

Hermione laughed, but there was a bitter edge to the sound. "Haven't you heard? I'm just as much a recluse as you." Her eyes strayed away, landed on the note that she'd left on the countertop, and a blush bloomed high on her cheeks.

"Ginny asked me over," she admitted.

"And you came here instead?"

She leaned in close, so close that those wisps of hair he'd wanted to touch brushed against his face.

"Do you want to know what happened after the war?" she asked, so softly that he almost thought he'd imagined it.

Draco nodded.

Hermione's shoulders turned inward, just enough to give away a hint of self-consciousness.

"The panic attacks started almost right away," she began, eyes on the vials between them. "Ron...had no idea what to do with me. We were holed up in Grimmauld place, the three of us together, and Ginny would floo in to be with Harry whenever she could slip away from Molly. Whenever it happened, Ron would find an excuse to go - get me a cup of tea, and not come back. Get Harry, and end up playing a game of chess instead. And Harry didn't even notice."

She caught sight of Draco's furrowed brow, and shook her head. "I don't blame him for it. He still had nightmares all the time, and even with Voldemort dead he was scared that we'd missed something. That he might come back somehow." Her eyes lifted to meet his. "You were gone by then, so I don't know if you know about this, but Harry went straight to the Ministry to help the Aurors track down the remaining Death Eaters."

He had heard about that, actually. His probation officer, Allard, had recognized something in him back then that he himself hadn't yet. He slipped Draco copies of the Prophet occasionally, or casually mentioned things - that Weasley had almost lost a hand. That Nott, Sr. had been killed in a chase and left a mansion full of dark objects for his son to clean up.

"It was ridiculous, really, everyone knew there was no way for them to make a comeback. Of course, once we won, that's when supporters of the Order suddenly came out of the woodwork. Everyone had an awful lot of information about Death Eater safehouses and travel routes." The bitterness was back now, tinging her voice and twisting her lips into a sneer.

Draco looked down and noticed that her hands were trembling. His gaze snapped back up to her face quickly, looking for that tell-tale far away gaze, but he could see that she was fighting it.

Snatching one of the vials, he pressed it into her palm. "Here. This is Walker Wright's. If my instincts about him are correct, he has a bright future as a healer ahead of him."

Hermione uncapped it, her eyes on his the whole time, and she drank it down quickly. Her eyebrows rose. "Citrus," she commented, looking impressed. The corner of his mouth lifted in answer.

She took a deep breath, but her fingers still flickered with nerves. Without thinking, Draco reached out and pressed them into his own hands, feeling the trembling slow.

Hermione's eyes were no longer fighting to take in the world around her; they were focused on him. He felt more exposed than he had since the trials all of those years ago, but this was of a different kind of vulnerability. More like someone was seeing him for the first time. And he realized that if anyone was going to see him stripped down like this, he wanted it to be Hermione Granger.

"You're the only one who's stayed, Draco," she said quietly, thumb stroking his palm. "No one has ever stayed with me through a panic attack. Until you. No one has ever talked to me before. That's why I'm here, and not with anyone else. And I wouldn't have ti any other way."


End file.
